Twenty Years
by hsanders7
Summary: ...And twenty years later he’ll say that he felt asleep, technically, it’s the truth.


**Disclaimer:** All rights to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer and the genius that is Hank Steinberg :)

**Género:** Drama

**Rating: **PG-17 for several bad words

**Summary: **...And twenty years later he'll say that he fell asleep, technically, it's the truth.

**Author Note: **This fic is originally written in Spanish, if you want to read that version you can find it in my profile. I want to thank my sister for betaing this and sorry if there are still some mistakes, English is not my main language

* * *

_Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth  
You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette  
The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget  
Ohhh how how how, you__'re a rock n roll suicide_

As the car was sliding quickly on the dry asphalt, Jack Malone couldn't help but to look out the driver's window and admire the blurry green mass of trees by the road.

He's been half an hour behind the wheels of his father's old Chevy, he doesn't let him ride it, but who really cares, he's been two years in Germany and it's not likely that he's going to come running just because his son needs him, he hasn't done that in years and he's not going to do it now, Jack knows that Frank Malone doesn't worry about that crap. Who cares.

And it fucking bothers him, because he's always thought that it's his fault. For not telling him, for not warning him about what was going to happen. He knew it and still didn't say, for that he is sure that his father must hate him. But what kind of father hates his own son? Frank Malone's that kind of father, or so he thinks. Although he doubts that the hate his father's got is entirely for him, something tells him that he somehow hates her too, because Frank never understood her, and he did. When she spent days on end laying in bed, when she got insomnia and spent so many nights on the sofa just looking out the window, it was him who knew how to help her and not Frank, and he knows his father hates him for that too.

Because Frank was always out and when she died (_committed suicide, he thinks_) he realised that she had become a stranger for him, and he for her. But he also thinks that his father feels some kind of self-hate, he knows his father can't stand himself, that he must've thought that if he could have done differently in the past, something like this would have never happened. Less work? Of course. Less travels? Absolutely, and although he'll always feel that sense of self-hate, he can't do anything about it now and that's why Frank Malone relays even more in his work and his travels.

Shit, he should study psychology.

When he stopped her the first time, he felt the biggest egoistical bastard of the universe. She wasn't happy, didn't like her lifestyle, couldn't take it anymore, but hell, she was his mother, and if she thought that he was going to let her leave him alone with his father she didn't knew him very well.

When he took the hose out of the exhaust he doubts for a moment. Should he do that? Maybe then she'd rest. But when he saved her life he told himself that it was his mother, mothers aren't meant to kill themselves, mothers don't leave their child alone with a father they don't get along with, mothers want what's best for their children. How do you think your child is going to feel when you kill yourself?

Years later he'll know that his mother suffered form chronic depression and they'd have to had hundreds of hours of consults with psychologists to help her, and he was sure that he couldn't have done that with his father, and that's the thing.

He's been laying on his parent house's sofa for nearly a year, doing nothing and watching 'The Wheel of Fortune'. Someone should ban that fucking show, kills neurons.

He pressed on the accelerator of the Chevy and felt the purr of the engine on the road. He started to feel the sun on his back, it was four p.m after all, and David was bursting loudly from the speakers.

_Chev brakes are snarling as you stumble across the road  
But the day breaks instead so you hurry home  
Don__'t let the sun blast your shadow  
Don't let the milk float ride your mind  
You're so natural - religiously unkind_

They say that when you're going to die your life passes before your eyes. Lies. As the old Chevy was crushing against the telephone pole and Bowie's chords screeched with the crash, time slowed down, but nothing passed before his eyes, just a confused feeling. What the hell have you done to come to this and what the hell are you doing now? You enlisted the army because of your father and now that you've quit you've spent a year feeling sorry for yourself laying on your parent's sofa eating canned food and avoiding the garage,

Fucking psychological shit, bet it's hereditary.

_Oh no love! __You're not alone  
No matter what or who you've been  
No matter when or where you've seen  
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain  
I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain  
You're not alone_

Twenty years later he'll say that he felt asleep, at 4 P.M and in a straight road he crashed on a telephone pole. Twenty years later, in a wooded table, in a room of walls of glass and seconds before throwing a chair against one of them, before four other people he'll say that he was asleep, and it was true, he was until that very moment.


End file.
